


His and Her Circumstances

by Enenra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 15:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20245321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enenra/pseuds/Enenra
Summary: Random drabbles and one shots starring one Draco Malfoy and one Hermione Granger.





	1. His Lobster

The door to her office banged open and she jerked her head up to see a very angry, very disheveled-looking Draco Malfoy brandishing today's edition of the Daily Prophet.

She cut him off before he could say anything.

"Yes, Malfoy?" she said with a bored tone that she knew would only enrage him further.

He looked at her incredulously.

"Oh so it's back to Malfoy now huh?"

She just stared at him, challenging.

"Never mind that, what the fuck is this?" he yelled slamming the newspaper on her desk. She glanced at the front page where she knew a picture of her on Ron's arm at last night charity ball was playing in an endless loop. They were smiling at each other like they shared secrets no one knew about (which admittedly, they did). The title in bold black letters read: War Heroine ditches ex Death Eater for Childhood Sweatheart.

"What about it?"

"What about it? WHAT ABOUT IT? Are you serious? What are you doing with that oaf! May I remind you that you are currently dating ME?" his face was so red it reminded her of Ron's hair and the irony almost made her laugh out loud.

But this wasn't the time for that. Instead, she arched an eyebrow and leaned back against her chair, crossing her arms.

"Am I?"

He turned almost purple, and his clenched fists were white and shaking with barely suppressed rage.

"Have you lost your mind? Of course you bloody are!"

"I thought we were on a break," she replied with a shrug, silently pleased that the bitterness she felt only showed faintly in her voice.

"A break? What break? I never agreed to a sodding break!"

"Funny, as I recall, it was your idea—"

"My what? When?"

"When you decided to take Astoria to Milan!" she snapped.

"Asto- I TOLD YOU NOTHING HAPPENED! She is my secretary I don't give a toss about Astoria it was work—"

"Right, so you said. How is that different from this," she asked, pointing a finger at the newspaper.

"He's your ex!"

"So is she!"

"No! It was an arranged engagement and we broke it off, nothing ever happened!"

"Nothing went beyond a spur of the moment kiss a million years ago with Ron so, again, how is it different?"

"It—it's, it just is! You are dating me!"

"We're on a break."

"No we bloody well aren't!"

They were both breathing heavily and glaring at one another and the air felt thick with irritation and resentment. Hermione took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Well then, I guess we're done."

He reeled back as if she'd slapped him or punched him or possibly both.

"What? No!" he cried out, gripping the edge her desk in dismay.

"What do you mean _no_? If I get jealous, I'm paranoid but if you do then _of course_ I'm cheating on you," she shook her head and pinned him with cold stare. "I warned you before we started this, Draco, I don't play games, we're through, get out of my office," she said with finality, waving her wand to open her door and getting up to retrieve a book from the shelves on the opposite side of the room.

"But! But that can't be!" he protested.

"I don't care," she didn't turn towards him.

"But you're my lobster!" he whined petulantly.

She whirled back to face him, "excuse me?!"

He huffed and ran both his hands in his hair in frustration.

"It's just something Lovegood said, about how lobsters fall in love and mate for life and how old ones hold claws and," he shook his head, "never mind, I don't want us to break up!"

"Since when do you listen to Luna's nonsense? As a matter of fact, since when do you hang out with Luna?"

"Doesn't matter," he said, dismissing her question with a wave of his hand, "I don't care about Wesley, I most definitely do not care about Astoria and sod the lobsters, we're meant to be together, I want this to work out, please let's just agree to get past this," he pleaded, looking remorseful and more than slightly panicked.

She stared at him for a long time in silence.

"Okay,"

"Yeah?" his grey eyes shone with hope.

"Yeah," she smiled.

He was in front of her in two strides, cupping her cheeks between his hands and the look he gave her was full of love and adoration.

"I love you," he said, hugging her, his face buried in her hair.

"I love you, too," she replied, the tension from their fight leaving her body as she relaxed into his embrace.

His lips were a breath away from hers when:

"so, no more going to charity balls with Weasley?"

Her eyes widened, "I can't believe you!" she pulled back, slapping his arm, "we were on a break!"

"Just teasing love," and then he kissed her.

For once, Loony Lovegood was right: She was his lobster and he was hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All hail the timeless awesomeness that is F.R.I.E.N.D.S and Phoebe Buffay in particular.


	2. Waiting For Harry

They are on either side of the hallway—head tilted back, back against the wall, and she looks at him quietly for a second because he is so still, for once, he is so quiet, for once, he is so uncharacteristically nondescript she can pretend the whole tableau is some obscure painting she's never seen before but knows nonetheless.

They are on either side of the hallway—exhausted and silent and all she can hear is the beating of her heart as heavy with the weight of this nameless, shapeless ghost of a relationship they are trapped into. They used to be enemies then they used to be lovers. They'd jumped from one extreme to the other with a fierce recklessness akin to blind stupidity. And after they'd unsurprisingly crashed and burned in the most spectacular display of resentment and anger, they'd just fallen off the spectrum of relationships in this sort of grey area that looks like Limbo but feels a lot like Hell.

They are on either side of the hallway and she closes her eyes and sighs because her head hurts from all the what-ifs and her lungs burn from all the words left unsaid and she doesn't want to be here. She is cold and drained and the mission was a disaster and she never imagined that other people would be caught in the devastating wake of their mutual destruction. But Ron is in the room to her right and Healers come and go and she can't even cry about any of it. The blood on her jeans is all his and the blood on his shirt is all his and they sit on either side of the hallway like living, breathing evidence from a gruesome crime scene.

From the other side of the hallway he opens his eyes and looks at her. She looks the way he thought she would—somber and pensive and with guilt clawing at her face. He feels empty and so incredibly tired. It's not even physical; his mind has gone numb. There's a sort of lethargy there and it is so quiet and unassuming yet all-consuming he can't do anything but stare. Avoiding her takes energy and that's energy he doesn't have.

From the other side of the hallway he wonders about the events that have led them here. How and when and for fuck's sake _why_? What moment in time should have gone differently for things not to have turned out this way? He supposes he knows. He's always known. It's just that right now his brain is too nebulous to wrap itself in his usual denial. Denial takes energy and that's energy he doesn't have.

From the other side of the hallway he knows she is watching him too. He knows she is thinking, too. He knows she's probably pondering the same things, too. Weasley's blood on their clothes is a loud and jarring manifestation of the gapping, weeping wounds they've inflicted so viciously and deliberately on each other. She'll blame herself because that's who she is, and she'll blame him because of who he is. He doesn't want to talk to her, although he too has blame to lay at her feet. But he won't. Defending himself against her takes energy and that's energy he doesn't have.

And so they sit still and unmoving on either side of the hallway, as healers and patients and visitors rush past them, as life and death haunt the place in an ethereal dance of uncertainty, and wait for Harry to come fix it all.


	3. J'te l'dis Quand Même

She sat at the kitchen table nursing a large cup of now lukewarm tea. Her unfocused eyes were far away, looking beyond the dark apartment, as her foggy mind still clung to the tattered remains of her nightmare. 

Or more like nightmares.

It had been a while since she’d had that particular medley of sinister and cold foreboding visions grip her in her sleep and throw her into a distorted version of her past. Most days, the scars on her body didn’t even remind her of anything except for the fact that they had all fought bravely and lived to savor each day of their earned and well-deserved freedom.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. She didn’t like feeling like this—like she was suddenly back in time and waiting for the other shoe to drop; waiting for things to take a wrong turn, waiting for danger to blindside her and obliterate the life she’d made for herself. She’d spend a few years after the war feeling that way—on edge and paranoid. PTSS had been a long exhausting battle, one she had emerged from victorious but it seemed that, tonight at least, she was losing.

She didn’t even know why it had happened. Everything was fine—her job was great, her friends were great, her parents were still on the other side of the planet but they were great and things with Draco were…

Hermione frowned.

Her brain failed to finish that thought, as if it couldn’t come up with the right words. Weren’t things with Draco great? Last night had been fine, conversation at dinner hadn’t flowed as usual but they’d both been tired. And although they hadn’t made love, the simple act of sleeping next to him always filled her with a deep-seated contentment. 

She was missing something. 

When was the last time they’d made love? She surmised that after five years together, and busy fulfilling careers, things were bound to slow down a bit but she really couldn’t remember the last time.

Was it a month ago? Two months? Was it before she left for Prague or after he’d come back from Oslo? She couldn’t for the life of her remember.

She remembered other times just fine. In fact, a number of those times had taken place in the very room she was in, some on the exact chair she was sitting on and others on the same table her elbows rested on. But recent memory was devoid of any vestige of such events.

So what if they hadn’t connected that way in a while? It didn’t make sense for her to be having nightmares again over that. It wasn’t like she was sexually frustrated, she didn’t have _time_ to be sexually frustrated, work was hectic and she’s been stressed out and…

What about him though? He’d been just as busy with his own responsibilities, flying all over Europe for this meeting or that conference but did he feel like she was shutting him out?

Did he feel like they were drifting apart?

_Were_ they drifting apart?

The thought hit her like a ton of bricks. A horrible sense of dread coiled in the pit of her stomach and her heart squeezed painfully as panic flooded her bloodstream. The urge to know what he thought made her want to run back to bed and shake him awake to ask him.

She was about to push the chair and do just that when the overhead lights of the kitchen came on, blinding her. And as if she’d summoned him somehow, he was there.

“What are you doing in the dark?”

She squinted at him, “turn it down.”

He dimmed the lights to a soft yellow hue.

“Sorry,” he moved to stand next to her side, looking down at her with concern. “Are you okay? Why are you here at,” he checked the clock on the wall, “three in the morning?”

She reached up, taking his left hand and lacing her fingers with his. His hand was cold. His hands were always cold. She used to tease him about it. When did she forget that his hands were always cold?

She sighed, feeling incredibly sad. The panic had abided at having him next to her, his mere presence comforting but her heart still felt heavy.

“Nightmare,” she muttered. His free hand reached up to cup her face, his thumb caressing the curve of her cheek gently.

“You want to talk about it?”

Sleep was slowly receded from his eyes and she knew his offer to listen to whatever was haunting her was genuine. Because they’d done this before, countless times, at this very table— him finding her lost in the dark; her finding him shaking in the dark. They’d done this almost every night, at one point, after sleep became too restless and cruel to bear.

Hermione shook her head. They needed to talk, but not about the nightmares. The ghosts of her past that still lurked in the recess of her mind were nothing compared to the possibility of her present turning into one.

“No, it’s okay,” she answered looking at their joined hands. Her question was on the tip of her tongue but she couldn’t bring herself to ask it just yet.

“Are you sure?” he lifted her chin with his knuckles, forcing her to look at him.

She turned her face and kissed the inside of his wrist. “I’m sure.”

His silver eyes softened and a small affectionate smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Do you want to come back to bed?”

“Not yet.”

He nodded then he dragged her to her feet and sat instead in the chair before pulled her sideways onto his lap. Their hands were still locked together and she run her thumb across his wrist while he nuzzled her neck, leaving soft kisses on her bare shoulder. They sat in confortable silence for a while, quietly savoring each other’s presence.

“It’s been a while since we’ve done this,” he said after a moment.

She hummed, not surprised they would be thinking the same thing.

“I missed this,” he continued then turned his face to look at her, “I miss you.”

She shifted on his lap to grab his face and the look in his eyes…

It stopped her heart, it stole her breath. It was the silent answer to that question she lacked courage to ask.

She’d seen that same look at diner—fleeting, while she was looking at the menu and looked up when she felt him staring at her. But it had vanished before she could dwell on it and she’d simply dismissed it as tiredness by the time the first course arrived. But her subconscious had clearly noticed and sent her nightmares so she would remember, so she would see that something wasn’t right.

“I’m sorry,” she said, guilt marring her brow, regret clenching her chest. “I know, I haven’t been present this past months and—”

“_We_ haven’t been present this past months”, he corrected. “This isn’t on you alone, it takes two to make a relationship work.”

She wanted to kiss him and that wonderful mouth of his.

And so she did.

“After this case is done, I promise to take a week off,” she said her forehead against his.

It was his turn to kiss her.

“What do you want to do?” his free hand dragged lazily along her arm, “we could go somewhere? Florence?”

She thought about it. They’d talked about Florence last year but…

“I don’t really want to go anywhere,” she said watching her fingers play with his hair. She hadn’t done that in what felt like year now. Then her eyes met his, “I’d rather stay here, just the two of us and ignore the rest of the world.”

He pulled their joined hands to his and kissed her knuckles, mirroring her earlier gesture.

“Sounds perfect.”

“We can go there another time,” she offered, kissing his jaw. “Or maybe Vienna?”

His hand drew abstract shapes on her back over the fabric of her shirt.

“Maybe go back to Paris? I know you’re not fond of the place but…” she shrugged.

He smirked and she realized she hadn’t seen that expression on his face in so long. A pang of longing gripped her chest. How hadn’t she realized how much she’d missed him, missed everything about him.

“As long as you’re with me, I’ll go anywhere you want,” before adding with a long suffering sigh, “even sodding Paris.”

Her chest swelled with warmth and adoration and love.

She bit his bicep playfully and he made a show of yelping.

She rolled her eyes.

“Paris has nice memories,” she countered.

He nodded, his fingers drifting along her exposed thigh.

“Like that little piano bar we stumbled across,”

“We didn’t stumble across it as much as ducked inside because of all that_ fucking_ rain,”

She laughed. At least that was something she hadn’t forgotten—he absolutely loathed the rain.

“We live in London, world capital of the rain, how was that different?”

“London is home, I know what to expect, if I want rain I can just stay here, thank you very much.” 

She laughed again because he was completely serious.

“Still, that night turned out perfectly,” she rolled her eyes at his lascivious smirk, “I don’t mean that part,” she pinched his bicep this time but his smile only grew larger.

“Why not? I happen to like that part the best.”

“I’m sure you do, but I meant the dancing,” she looked at him wistfully and her voiced dipped with melancholy, “I miss dancing with you,”

He kissed the column of her neck and she closed her eyes. Then he pulled away abruptly, letting go of her hand and reached for her bag on the other side of the table.

“What are you doing?”

“Where is that music thing you use?”

“The what? oh you mean,” she pulled the bag closer to her and rampaged through the content before extracting her old iPod and handing it to him.

He started going through the list as she looked at him curiously.

“Why do you want to listen to music?”

“Can’t dance without music now can we?”

He clicked the song and she recognized the piano immediately. It was one of the songs they’d danced to that night. She’d loved it so much she’d walked up to the pianist when he took a break and asked him about the title.

Draco offered her his hand again.

“Shall we?”

She smiled brightly at him and took it, intertwining their fingers once more and stood. His other hand went to her waist; fingers spread across her back while she pressed her chest against his, her head on his shoulder.

She could hear his steady heartbeat under his skin—soothing, strong, here. Hers.

And there they stood, in their dimly lit kitchen, her in her worn-out over-sized t-shirt and him only in his flannel pajama bottoms, swaying gently to the music of a song about breaking up yet bonding for the first time in months. He twirled her once, like he’d done that night, and she laughed, and he smiled down at her.

It was perfect.

She raised her face up to his ear, as the song was winding down and whispered the last words against his ear:

“_Je t’aime_.”

They remained there, holding each other long after the song ended. 

She kissed his bare shoulder.

“Your skin is so soft,” she marveled in a whisper, tracing his collarbone with the tip of her finger where her lips had been, “I always forget that, I hate that I always forget that.” she said kissing him a second time, feeling the longing and the sadness again.

“Then I’ll just have to work harder to make you remember,” and, this time, the look in his eyes took her breath away for all the right reasons. 

He sank his hands in her hair and kissed her deeply before grabbing the back of her legs and hoisting her up against him. She wrapped herself around him as he walked them back to their bedroom.

And he did as he promised— he made her remember, over and over again, and Hermione was sure to never forget again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song they dance to is the title of the one shot, you'll find it on good old youtube.


	4. Bad Day

She closed the door to her flat and leant against the wood, dropping her bag onto the floor.

Exhausted.

She was exhausted.

Her day had been a disaster and she felt miserable and cold. Between spilling her coffee on her blouse that morning (when that prat Cormac had bumped into her on purpose), being forced to work through lunch to prepare for her appearance in front of the Wizengamot (last minute changes in their seemingly endless list of stipulations) and having the horrible surprise to argue against that vindictive old bat Griselda Marshbanks instead of the lazy, half wit Ernest Hawkworth… the day couldn't end fast enough.

It hadn't been grueling enough, apparently, and as she reached the Apparition point, the sky had finally opened after days of looking angry and sullen and sinister, drenching her.

She didn't bother with a drying spell and headed straight for her bathroom to treat herself to a well-deserved bath. As she waited for the water to fill the tub, she summed a bottle of red wine and a glass from the kitchen, undressed and dried her hair with spell before pinning it at the top of her head and settling beneath the soft bubbles.

Hermione heaved a deep sigh and took a sip of wine. Her body relaxed with the help of the salts and the deliciously warm temperature of the water, but she still felt heavy; still felt dejected. She didn't know which way the Wizengamot was going to vote and they wouldn't give her an answer until Monday. She'd have to spend the entire weekend worrying and fretting about it, no doubt driving herself crazy in the process.

She closed her eyes and savored another mouthful of her drink, letting her head fall back against the white porcelain.

She missed Draco.

He always knew the perfect way to distract her from the vicious mind games that the Authorities That Be liked to play with her. If he were here, he'd probably take her out, take her some place she would be able to relax and forget, take her to dinner, take her dancing… take her to bed.

Yes, if he were here…

But Draco was in Austria, until the end of the month, and it was on days like these that the weight of his absence pressed down on her chest harder: closing her throat, bringing tears to her eyes. She didn't want to cry—it was absurd, really, and entirely pointless. She knew it was the accumulation of days working long hours for what she believed was right catching up with her.

She could owl him.

She considered that for a brief second before dismissing it. She knew he would find a way to come back early, and she didn't want to take him away from his responsibilities.

Despite her protests, she loved that he put her first. Always. His quiet devotion, more so than his seemingly insatiable desire, left her breathless sometimes.

She sighed again. Half her glass was gone and she twirled the carmine liquid inside, lost in thoughts.

It was excellent wine.

She snorted, rolling her eyes at the ceiling. Of course it would be. After all, it came from the illustrious cellars of Malfoy Manor, made in the equally illustrious Malfoy Vineyard in France. She smiled, remembering his face when Ron and Harry had shown up for her 27th birthday celebration with boxed wine.

He'd looked horrified, features frozen in shock and tense with outrage. But as she'd watched him accept the offering, his eyes glaring at the box with barely contained disdain, and shake hands with each of her best friends without a single snide remark, Hermione's heart had swelled with love and joy. After the guests had left, he'd practically run back to the kitchen to set the offending object on fire in the sink. She had laughed hysterically as he went on a tirade about unsophisticated people and ridiculous bad taste and _where the fuck did they even find that? Surely they didn't pay for it? Don't tell me they made it themselves!_

She'd calmed down enough to explain that it was a Muggle product and that she and the boys had this little tradition about drinking it on each other's birthday. He'd stared at her in stunned silence for a full minute, before promptly declaring, as he washed away the ashes down the drain with a flick of his wand, that they needed a new _adult_ tradition and that it was _high time_ for _all three of them_ to learn about the _finer things in life_.

Hermione set the now empty glass on the floor. Thinking about him always gave her a measure of peace and serenity but it also made his absence infinitely more acute and almost palpable. The only remedy to her current languor was a good book.

She wrapped herself in his Slytherin bathrobe, ignoring her Gryffindor one on the hook behind the bathroom door (a gift from Blaise because, as he'd declared, "why not?") and left behind the wine and her clothes on the white tiled floor, electing to deal with the mess in the morning.

She pushed her bedroom door open and her heart stopped. Her breath caught somewhere in her throat and a strangled gasp fell from her lips.

Draco.

For a moment, she thought she was hallucinating. Her wide eyes took in the blond man in his rumbled suit sleeping on his side in the middle of her unmade bed, with an orange fur ball curled up against his stomach, and she felt certain it was all some sort of mirage; that she'd blink and he would vanish.

Crookshanks opened his eyes, raised his head to look at her and yawned.

She blinked.

The man was still there.

_Draco_ was still there.

Her cat stood, stretched and jumped down, grazing her bare legs as he sauntered past, leaving them alone. As if he'd stood guard there, simply waiting for her to come home and take her rightful place next to the sleeping man.

She didn't realize she had moved until her shins hit the edge of the mattress and she was standing over him. It still felt like a dream. To make sure, to reassure her that this was not some trick of her mind—because she missed him so much, the pain felt like a physical wound—, her hand reached down and brushed his hair off his face.

Real.

His eyelids fluttered and sleepy grey eyes stared at her.

"Hey you," his voice was hoarse with sleep.

"Hey," she whispered, her fingers trailing down his cheek. He gave her a lazy smile, grabbing her wrist and placing a gentle kiss in the palm of her hand.

She opened her mouth to say something else—to ask him what he was doing here, how come he didn't tell her he'd be coming back earlier than expected? but the only thing that came out of her mouth was a broken sob.

Startled, she watched him look up at her and frown. Then his hand came up to her face and he wiped her cheek.

She was crying.

"What's wrong?"

She tried to speak, tried to tell him it was nothing—she was just tired, had a bad day—wanted to assure him that she was fine.

But she couldn't.

She sank onto her knees on the bedside rug, collapsing under the crushing weight of her breakdown. The silent tears gave way to loud weeping—sharp hiccups tore from her lungs and violent sobs shook her entire body. He immediately sat up and gathered her in his arms, dragging her onto the bed.

"What happened?" he tried again, but all she could do was shake her head as the tension of the past week washed out off of her in waves. She clung to him and he held her and let her cry against him, her face buried in his chest, no doubt ruining his expensive suit further.

When the hysteria abided, Hermione sniffed and slowly pulled away from his embrace. She wiped her face with the sleeves of the bathrobe and took a deep, cleansing breath. She felt considerably better, lighter but also utterly mortified.

"Are you okay?" his worried eyes scanned her face, hands running down her arms.

She nodded, a blush creeping up her cheeks, burning her face with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me," she said, looking down at her comforter, hating the way her voice sounded so vulnerable.

He placed his hands on either side of her face and tilted his head to look at her.

For the longest time, he didn't say anything and simply stared at her like he could read her—like she was his favourite book and he recognized this particular chapter.

"Bad day," he finally said.

It wasn't a question.

He knew.

He understood.

Just like that.

She nodded again.

"Wizengamot tug of war?" he handed her the box of tissues from her nightstand. Despite his half-smile, there was still some lingering concern in his eyes.

She barked a short laugh, wiping at her nose.

"Yeah, had to deal with that awful Marshbanks woman because Hawkworth is out with dragon pox"

"Isn't he like a thousand years old, how hasn't he contracted it before?"

She shrugged.

"What else?"

Before she could stop herself, she blurred out:

"Cormac bumped into me, made me spill coffee on my shirt," it was childish, she knew, like tattling on a naughty classmate to her favourite teacher, but she was feeling raw and exposed and it didn't feel right to start hiding things seconds after cleansing herself from everything.

"That fucking useless wanker!" the surge of anger made the grey of his irises look like the stormy sky outside.

"It's okay," she said but his eyes narrowed, "well not okay but whatever, it doesn't matter."

"Of course it bloody well matters! You should report his incompetent arse!"

"For what? Being a prick?"

Cormac was many things, but incompetent wasn't one of them (unfortunately).

"Absolutely," he nodded vehemently, "I'll report him myself!"

She stared at him in silence… and burst out laughing. Full blown, belly clenching, can't-breathe laughter. She fell onto her side, the crystalline sound filling the room, tears of mirth tracing the same path as her earlier ones as he looked at her with a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, fighting the urge to join her while trying to hold on to his self-righteous anger. She flipped on her back and tried to catch her breath.

"Oh Merlin, thank you for being so awesomely ridiculous," she said, calming down.

He sneered but his eyes were soft now.

"I meant it,"

"Oh I know you did, that's why it was so hilarious."

"Maybe I'll ask Potter to do something about it," he mused.

"No," she sat up, shaking her head, "it doesn't matter, just drop it."

"—or perhaps Weasley, he can't stand him either," he carrying on, as if she hadn't spoken.

"Draco!" she grabbed his upper arms as if to shake him from his nefarious plotting.

He gave her a playful smile, "all right, all right."

She watched him, knowing full well that he was going to do whatever he wanted in the end but dropped it because she didn't want to dwell on stupid Cormac any longer.

She intertwined their fingers, her thumb tracing the inside of her palm absentmindedly.

"When did you get back?"

"Lunch time, I think. I was going to owl you, but… I fell asleep," he said, avoiding her eyes.

His cheeks tinted with a light pink hue.

He was embarrassed.

It was adorable.

"I thought you needed to stay until the end of the month?"

He shrugged, "I wanted to see you."

If she hadn't just cried herself raw, she knew her eyes would have smarted.

She couldn't help her reply though, "but what about work?"

"I'm the boss, work can wait," he waved a dismissive hand.

She rolled her eyes, "Honestly!"

"Don't give me that look, Granger, I know you're ecstatic I'm here," his lips stretched in that familiar arrogant smirk.

She chuckled, "I wouldn't say ecstatic…"

"Oh, really?" he quirked that damned perfect eyebrow, "what would you say then?" he was leaning towards her, a predatory gleam in his eyes. It sent a thrill up her spine.

_Oh-oh._

She tried to bolt out of bed but he caught her waist and began tickling her mercilessly.

"Stop, sto-stop, Draco!"

"Say you're ecstatic to see me,"

"I'm, ah, stop!"

"Say it,"

"I'm ecstatic to see you," she practically yelled, sucking in a breath when he let up.

He gave her a peck on the lips and pulled back.

"Say Mclaggen is a tosser and should rot in hell,"

She began to roll her eyes but he started tickling her again and she tried to grab his wrists and push him with her knees. But he had her completely pinned down.

"Mclaggen is a to-tosser and, stop! He, he should rot in-in hell," she huffed.

"Say I'm the best you've ever had,"

"Now you're just being ridiculous,"

He was also absolutely right.

Draco grinned down at her and his fingers dug into her sides again, making her yelp and squirm.

"Say it, witch,"

"You're-you're the best I've ever had!"

"Say you've missed me," he stopped, his hands still on her sides, his body hovering over her, his eyes boring into hers.

"I did, so much," she said. She felt the ache again, pressing down on her chest, pressing, pressing, pressing.

He kissed her deeply and took it all away.

"Say you love me," a plea against her lips.

"I love you," her fingers in his hair, her mouth on his.

He swallowed her confession and she moaned, melting under him.

"By the way, you look amazing in this," his eyes roamed over her exposed shoulder and collarbone, the sides of the bathrobe having slipped open during her struggle. He pulled the cotton fabric apart further, dropping his head to kiss and nibble at her skin.

"You want to switch?" she quipped, "use mine from now on?"

He laughed against her throat, "hell no."

"You're a man child,"

"Whatever you say," he mumbled, his mouth trailing down between her breasts, his hand pushing her legs open.

She closed her eyes, and let him make her forget, the way he did best: With his hands and his lips and his teeth and his tongue. She lost herself in the sound of his groans and the feel of his skin and the taste of him and inhaled his scent like he was the only air she ever needed.

They remained tangled in the aftermath, his fingertips running leisurely over her back, her head on his chest as she listened to his heart slowly returning to a steady rhythm as they watched the rain outside beat against the window in the same cadence.


	5. Longing

There is blood on her face and a deafening ringing in her ears.**  
**

The frantic beating of her heart inside the hollow of her chest echoes through every part of her body.

She looks up, dazed. Her vision swims with unshed tears.

She blinks once, twice.

Pain in the back of her skull throbs like an angry living thing. She wages blood is already making a mess of her hair.

But it doesn't matter.

None of that matters.

Not the fact that she was caught off guard and almost torn to pieces.

Not the rush of adrenaline leaving her body, crashing her nervous system, leaving her feeling cold, colder than the brick wall she is slumped against.

No.

What matters is the man standing over the dead body of her attacker.

What matters is the gun in his hand.

What matters is the blank expression on his face.

What matters is his eyes that pierce her.

What matters is the memory those eyes evoke.

Something long forgotten. The tattered remains of a past encounter so distant it could be a figment of her imagination, a trick of her mind, a false sense of déjà-vu — a blurry dream she once had.

His hair is shorter and his frame much taller but the pallor of his skin, the ethereal beauty of his features, his commanding, almost intimidating presence…

Those details make him real. Familiar even.

And then he puts the gun away and moves towards her one swift, measured move, and the frozen air between them shifts.

Instead of the stench of blood and death, her lungs fill with the smell of rain and apples.

The memory of his eyes becomes sharper—a torn photograph piecing itself back together.

It was so long ago.

The middle of the night.

A stormy night.

Loud and angry and raging.

And him—longer hair, smaller frame, translucent skin, carmine lips, and those eyes...

Those eyes burning with contained, cold fire.

Eyes the color of charcoal and smoke and ash.

She remembers shivering under his gaze.

She remembers being fascinated, too.

"You should leave."

She startles at the sound of his voice. She blinks her vision into focus, extracting herself from the past to find him standing over her.

She stares at him, unmoving.

His face remains expressionless as he kneels in front of her. His left hand reaches for her face and the sleeve of his black coat rides up his forearm, revealing his wrist and that's when she sees it.

The tattoo.

Her body jerks back, her eyes wide with the pure terror that grips her chest.

She knows that tattoo.

She has never seen it before, but she knows it.

She has heard stories about it.

Terrible, terrible stories. Forbidden, gruesome tales that people whisper in a voice filled with fear and awe. Retellings of events no one has witnessed themselves but recount with conviction.

"You're a Reaper," the words tumble out of her lips in a strangled whisper.

It's not a question.

Because she is certain.

Because that symbol speaks for itself.

It stands for unspeakable things done in the dark.

He drops his hand and the sigil is swallowed by the material of his coat.

That doesn't change the fact that she has seen it. The image is burnt into her retina. Every black line and curve of it etched into her memory, indelible.

"You should leave," he repeats, standing up. She tracks his every move with her eyes.

He straightens to his full height, towering over her.

His face is a mask of nothingness that she would find irritating, under different circumstances.

His eyes though…

She can see something flicker there, behind that burning cold fire. An emotion she can't understand—has no way of understanding because she doesn't know this man.

If one could call a Reaper a man.

He walks back to the corpse on the ground, giving her his profile again. The hand he'd used to reach for her hovers over the cadaver. He mutters something she can't hear and the dead body dissolves into nothing.

Gone.

As if it never existed.

He stares at her again but doesn't speak.

The nameless emotion flares to life, consuming the cold fire for a second.

It's fleeting but she sees it.

She sees it and it is not nameless anymore.

She blinks in disbelief and he's gone.

As if he, too, never existed.

But she knows better.

There is blood on her face.

The pain at the back of her skull is still there—dull now, but persistent nonetheless.

The sound of his voice lingers in her ears.

She can still see the tattoo—a stark contrast of black ink against alabaster skin.

She can still see his eyes—Charcoal and smoke and ash.

Burning, restrained cold fire.

And that confounding emotion that broke free for a split second.

_Longing._


	6. Heat Wave

It’s day five of what Ron has dubbed “the roasting fest”. She doesn’t approve of the name, but she reluctantly admits that it does give a general idea of what is happening.

She’s just glad exams are over. It would have been unbearable to have to sit for her N.E.W.T.s in this scorching weather.

But it’s not just the thick, awful, unrelenting and unnatural heat that she can’t stand; it’s the chaos it brought along with it.

Because, apparently, it wasn’t enough to simply make them all sweat through every pore, every second of the day—no, the heatwave also felt the remarkable need to give free rein to the teenage hormones of a shocking number of people among the student body.

She knows it’s not normal, the way those people just seem to _fall_ into each other. There is magic involved in the way the unexpected couples get together; a strong, pulsating urge that demands attention and refuses to be ignored. Yes, she is sure of it—this heatwave that came out of nowhere and bears down on Hogwarts with the legendary stubbornness of a horde of hippogriffs, has magic written all over it.

Yet no one has an explanation for why couples are springing left and right in the normally cold, stone hallways that now feel suffocating and somehow narrower than they actually are. No one can provide a reason for this all-consuming feeling of being slowly, methodically stewed alive. No one understands how it happened. No one knows why it’s here. No one knows anything and it is filling her with both outrage and dismay.

At breakfast on day three, Luna explained it’s all because the Nargles’ centurial mating season has started, and Hermione just rolled her eyes and downed her fifth glass of cold water in less than half an hour.

She has a theory; of course she does, because she is the brightest witch of their age. Because when doesn’t Hermione Granger have a theory about things? She thinks it’s their version of climate change—the magical equivalent of seasons becoming unstable and prickly and vengeful and generally burning with the desire to fuck them over like Humans have fucked over the planet for centuries.

Hermione finds herself in the library for the umpteenth time since this whole mess has started. She needs answers, she can’t just ‘_let it run its course’ _like McGongall suggested when she asked her about this anomaly on day two. She needs to know because there is _always_ a reason. Nothing just _happens_!

And what about those students who seem to have lost their mind? She’s even walked in on a Slytherin girl and a Hufflepuff boy in the girl’s bathroom on day four, for Merlin’s sake! That isn’t even the most absurd pairing wandering the halls, snogging each other into oblivion, and that is saying a lot. She can’t even imagine being that close to another human being in her condition. Her own skin feels like too much—like a thick coat that she wore during winter but somehow forgot to take off and it just merged with her epidermis.

On her way down to her sanctuary, she’s passed no less than five couples devouring each other’s faces in varying states of undress in the hallway (a clear and blatant violation of school policy), seemingly lost to this unknown phenomenon, having surrendered their common sense to its overwhelming power.

She’s determined not to let that happen to her. Her mind is her own and no magic or weather or curse or whatever this abhorrent thing is will ever take that away from her. That’s why she’s been spending all her time in the restricted section, regardless of the suffocating high temperature, since day one.

Harry and Ron don’t care about any of her misgivings, much like the rest of Gryffindor, and just shot her a quick “_see you later”_ before hurrying down to the lake to cool off and enjoy their last days at school with their friends.

She puts the bottle of ice water under a Stasis charm at her feet next to her bag and pulls the volume on _Weather Magic and Other Druidic Spells_ on her lap and starts reading. No one is here, except for Madam Pince, and she feels at peace, protected from the mayhem outside, despite the sweat dripping down her back.

Absentmindedly, she gathers her hair into a high chignon and sticks a transfigured quill in the mess of curls. There’s nothing in the first twenty chapters and she huffs, irritated, and closes the book to take a long swing of her water before grabbing another tome from the selection on the table before her.

She is halfway through the sixth chapter when someone comes in. She doesn’t know why she feels the intruder’s presence, but there is a shift in the air—like a cool breeze that tickles the exposed nape of her neck. She lifts her head and looks around only to find the last person she wants to see standing on the other side of the bookshelf behind her.

She frowns. The breeze is gone and she thinks she just imagined it all. However, she can’t help but notice that the air is suddenly more breathable—lighter somehow— and something at the back of her mind whispers that it’s because of _him_—because _he_ is there, because they are _alone_, because he is _so close_.

He is clearly ignoring her, but something in the way his whole body tenses while perusing the shelf in front of him makes her think he feels it too.

“Of course you’d be here.”

Or maybe not. Maybe that’s just how he is wired to respond to her proximity.

He turns around and comes into the aisle where she is and she can see that his hair is wet and messy, and his tie is undone, hanging loosely around his neck, and the first four buttons of his shirt are undone and his skin seems to glow oddly with the thin sheen of sweat that clings to it.

Maybe it was a draft? She mused, only she knows it’s not because there hasn’t been any wind in what feels like an eternity.

She just rolls her eyes at his comment and goes back to reading, but then she feels it again—the breeze, a refreshing chill that feels oh-so-lovely on her warm cheeks. And when she lifts her head, he is so much closer now. And the air is lighter, crisp and it somehow reminds her of the beginning of spring. 

“What are you doing?” she manages to bite out when he takes a seat next to her. He props an elbow on the table, resting his head against his hand and just stares at her, trademark smirk in place. Instinctively, she shrinks back, pulling her book closer to her chest.

“Why aren’t you at the lake with the rest of your merry bunch?”

“Homework,” she answers.

He barks a laugh, “Granger, exams are over, there is no homework.”

Her scowl deepens and she snaps the book closed. She needs to get out of here. She grabs her book and her bottle and stands up so abruptly the chair topples over.

She closes her eyes and flinches as the clattering noise seems to reverberate in the silent library. When she opens them, she sees the amusement dancing in his eyes and that just sours her mood further.

Quickly, she replaces the chair and storms out of the aisle, determined to put as much distance between them as possible. But as soon and she leaves the alcove, the air suffocates her. The thick and heavy heat engulfs her and grabs her by the throat, and she feels like she is being smothered and choked all at once.

She stops and gasps for air, her body bending forward in shock and desperation. She can’t seem to remember how to breathe and the rising panic in her chest is not helping. It’s alarming, because she’s never felt like this— it’s harder than trying to catch your breath after running from Snatchers; it’s possibly worse than drowning, because she feels like she _is_ drowning only in lava.

And then it happens again—the breeze, only it’s not a breeze this time, it’s more like wind; strong and cold and so light it wraps around her and embraces her like the best hug in the world. She straightens and tries to inhale it, to keep it there because it feels like freedom and deliverance.

But when she finally notices him standing on her right, she tenses. And the look in his eyes… is that concern? No, she shakes her head and grips the strap of her bag tighter and glares at him.

“What are you playing at? Is this your doing? Did you find some sort of spell to counter this?”

He looks at her like she’s insane, and that just makes her angrier.

“Well? Come on now don’t be shy, you obviously found a temporary cure to this bloody heat, don’t you want to gloat? Don’t you want to bask in the glory of having _finally_ one-upped me? Honestly Malfoy this is low, even for you.”

She turns to leave but he grabs her arm and stops her. It’s not so much his grips that halts her movement as it is the feeling that comes with it. She feels like she’s suddenly bathed in snowflakes. Her eyes open wide and she looks at his hand around her wrist, then at his other one balled into a tight fist at his side, and she briefly wonders when and where in the hell he’s learnt to perform wandless, wordless magic.

A part of her wants to pull away—to go back to her initial plan of ignoring him and get as far away from him as she can, just as she’s done all year. But damn it if the feeling of being wrapped in a flurry of fluffy snow isn’t the best thing she’s felt in ages. Even better than the ethereal hug earlier.

“When did you lea-” she starts, but she doesn’t want to dwell on that part of the equation just yet. She bites her lip and forces herself not to succumb to the overwhelming urge to sigh in pleasure. The feeling of being stroked by a gentle snowstorm is enthralling and so damn distracting

She swallows hard, “where did you find this spell?”

“What spell? What the fuck are you talking about?”

She stares at him for a second, really looks at him. His eyes show no deception. He looks irritated and confused.

But she can’t accept that.

“The counterspell, Malfoy!” she repeats between gritted teeth, “for this bloody heat? where.did.you.find.it? I’ve looked all week and couldn’t find anything so how did you-”

She pauses and narrows her eyes at him. Could it be dark magic? No, dark magic would be more likely to cause this sodding heat than soothe it. She shakes her head, effectively dismissing the idea.

“Where did you find it?”

“Again, Granger, what-the-_fuck_-are-you-talking-about?”

She stomps her foot in aggravation. 

“Alright,” she closes her eyes briefly and breathes in, breathes out trying to reign in her anger. Oh merlin the air has never felt to good going into her laughs, it’s so sweet and so clean. There’s a hint of something else there, like parchment and cardamom and lavender. She can’t help it this time; she leans in and breathes it in and sighs in utter contentment.

He suddenly lets her go and steps back like she’s made of fire. The snow melts on her skin in rivulets of sweat.

“What…?” she opens her eyes, slightly disoriented, and meets the horror in his. “Malfoy?”  
  
He turns around and practically stumbles as he flees the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr in 2019 for Prompt Thursday.  
Prompt : Heat Wave


End file.
